Bill Bailey

by The Kid from Hoboken- An Autobiography (epub)

  At last the sound of a train whistle came through the cold night. A few minutes later it chugged into town and stopped. It was a local, going from town to town and picking up cattle cars. Right now 20 open-slatted cars were coupled to the small engine. "Get aboard!" the sheriff shouted. We opened a door and climbed in. The car had been used recently; dung and urine-soaked straw lay three inches deep. The stench was almost unbearable. With every move my arm rubbed against the side of the car where traces of dung still adhered. The train moved slowly out of town, maintaining that slow pace for the next three hours. It stopped once along the way to pick up one car. We huddled together for warmth. The person in the center was best protected. A cigarette, once lighted, quickly went the rounds, its original owner never seeing it again. If there ever was a common bond, this situation surely created it.

  Alpine had won every round. First it had prevented us from entering its precincts. Then it had forced us to ride away from it in a cattle car. That sheriff must still be laughing about it. We'd have been delighted to hear that Alpine had been blown off the map.

  The growls of my empty stomach weren't the only ones. "I'll tell you one thing I'm gonna do," announced a burly blond fellow. "When this outhouse comes to a stop, I'm gonna walk into the first restaurant I see and order a meal. I don't give a goddamn what they want to do about it, either."

  "Me, too, " vowed another.

  "Yeah, count me in," chimed a third.

  Within five minutes, 15 men had volunteered to join the blond in ordering meals they couldn't pay for.

  A dim glow on the horizon told us we were approaching a small town. Marfa, Texas, was very small indeed. No one met us. We scraped the dung off our shoes on the gravel and made for the few lights in town. Of the original group of volunteers, only 12 were left, with the blond leading the way. Only two places that looked like they could be eating spots were lit up. One was a combination drugstore and lunch counter. The blond said it looked too poor for us to lay such a burden on it, so we crossed the street to a cafe with a small counter inside and a sign in the front window: "Hurley's Cafe."

  By now there were only seven of us. The big blond still in the lead, we ambled inside and sat down at the counter. I took another look: only four of us! There were no customers. Behind the counter stood a young woman and a man a bit older, her husband. The cook, older than the other two and built like a football halfback, peered from the kitchen door. The young woman put glasses of water in front of us. Had the owner asked to see our money, a practice common in those days, the episode would have been quickly over. But he didn't. Maybe he thought four people would bring in a sizable sale. "What'll it be?" asked the waitress as she placed a napkin and silverware in front of me.

  "A hamburger steak with lots of onions and a cup of coffee, please," I ordered. The others said they'd have the same. Why didn't we order porterhouse or t-bone steaks as long as we weren't paying for the stuff?

  The waitress and her husband stood a few feet away, keeping a close watch on us. Our appetites had been slightly dulled by the coffee and bread and butter; still, it was too late, even if we'd had the inclination, to pull in our horns and bow out. On came the main dishes. We ate in silence, cleaning the plates to the last morsels. By now all three members of the establishment were clustered behind the cash register, waiting for the bill to be paid. They undoubtedly were also waiting for our exit so they could air out the place.

  The silence among us seemed to last an eternity. "Who's going to break the news?" the blond fellow wondered aloud. Three sets of shoulders shrugged. He cleared his throat. "Sir," he began. The three behind the cash register must have sensed what was coming; hostility appeared on their faces. Our blond friend began again. "You see, sir, we're without funds. We don't like to see you bear this expense alone. I used to be a deputy sheriff in Oklahoma. When things like this happened there, we'd present the county with a bill--and they always paid off. Could you do the same?"

  The owner stepped toward the phone. "Well, I reckon we'll just wait till the sheriff shows up and see what he thinks."

  The waitress removed the glasses of water from the counter. The cook rolled up his sleeves. Hurley screamed into the phone. "Well, operator, if he's not there, call his home!"

  A short pause. The phone rang. "Look, Phyllis, if he's not in his office and he's not at home, call Jake's place. He must be there playing cards."

  I asked myself if it had been worth it. A human being has two reactions to hunger. The first is panic: he'll take any risk to be fed. After his stomach is full and a penalty threatens, he feels fear. Our stomachs had been filled; now we were wondering what was in store. A beating? A stretch in jail? Or maybe a floater out of town? Whatever might come was already taking any joy out of the badly-needed meal.

  The phone rang again. "What do you mean, he's not there? Well where the hell is he, anyway? Keep trying, that's all."

  The cook moved out into the doorway near the street door. If we tried to make a break for it, he would make sure the attempt failed. The blond spokesman tried again. He wanted to discuss the county paying the bill. Hurley shut him up. "No need to say any more until the sheriff gets here," he told him.

  The phone jingled. Hurley grabbed it. "Yes. What do you mean, nobody knows where he's at? Just what the hell are we paying that man for?" In the pause we could hear a female voice squawking into Hurley's earpiece. "I'll tell you what," Hurley said when the squawking stopped. "He's probably up there screwing the new whore who blew into town last week. Did you try her place? What do you mean, you can't do that? I got a right to know where the sheriff is every minute of the goddamn day . . . well, to hell with you, too!" He slammed the receiver down hard, his face red. Then he looked each of us over real good.

  "All right, men. If the goddamn law is that bad in this town, then the feed is on me. You all hear that? It's on me." A few seconds earlier, the Hurley's Cafe staff would have stood and cheered if we had been lynched. Now, after Hurley's grand gesture, they congratulated us for having the courage to pull off such a stunt.

  "Why, I'd have done the same thing if I was starving," confided Hurley. "Yeah, many's the time I was edging up to it myself," concurred the cook. Mrs. Hurley just smiled and refilled our cups of coffee. The cook brought out some Prince Albert tobacco and passed it around. We all rolled cigarettes and tilted our heads in pleasure. I sipped on my coffee and thought about how little it takes to stir up emotion in people. Remembering the sheriff's house outside of Houston where I had bummed another meal, I realized that he, too, had behaved like a compassionate human being. Had it been because he'd been asked to and was made to feel important? Suppose we'd asked Hurley. Would he have given freely? Did his rage result because his benevolence had not been called upon first? Nobody appreciated having something pulled on him. I was thankful for the outcome and thankful, too, for a guy like the blond ex-sheriff from Oklahoma. Without him there could have been a very different ending.

  Naturally we all swore that someday we'd make the bill good. I don't know if the other three tried to do so, but I did. Some 45 years later I went back to that town. I found Mr. Hurley long dead and the cafe long gone. I did find Mrs. Hurley and tried to pay her. She refused the money.

  Out on the street, we ran into a half dozen of our companion freight car riders. They were surprised that we were still in one piece. They had expected Texas justice to prevail; maybe they had even looked forward to see us all swing in the breeze from a tree limb.

  We gathered around the water tower at the end of town. A small fire warmed us against the cold Texas night as we waited for the train. At two in the morning the El Paso freight stopped. Her three big engines were quickly serviced with water. But it was enough time for us to find an empty car and get aboard. None of the boxcars were empty, but the two coal gondolas were available. Despite the fact that we couldn't lie down due to the filth, we piled in, spurred by our desire not to press our luck with the local sheriff.

  As rides go, this one was mise
rable. Fortunately the train moved fast behind its powerful engines, even through mountain passes. By dawn we were more than halfway to El Paso. El Paso: the pass. The city lies snugly against its sister city of Juarez, Mexico. A bridge over the Rio Grande (or Rio Bravo) links the two. Our train crawled through the back streets of El Paso to the outskirts of the yard west of the city. We hopped off.

  First we needed a place to stay, where we could wash up and get something to eat. We were all intent on staying out of trouble. We wanted to avoid jail. Someone said there was a central feeding place for the jobless, an armory. It wasn't far off.

  The National Guard Armory occupied a full block. Men were walking in and out of the main gate. Inside a state trooper directed me to a corner of the lobby, where I was registered. The registrar told me, "You'll be given two meals--supper and breakfast. Since you're here early, though, you can have an extra breakfast. You'll be assigned a cot for tonight. Supper will be served from five to seven. You'll be expected to help clean up the area after supper and to set up your own cot. In the morning you are to fold your cot before breakfast. This is all we can do for you. Too many people need assistance. Here's your card. Show it to the man at the door."

  The feeding system was well-organized and required a minimum of effort. It was done cafeteria-style. All the butter you could use was on the table. After eating you took your own dirty dishes to the dishwasher.

  I had a whole day to explore the city. A border town, I had been told, is always a bawdy place, full of winos, junkies, petty thieves and tourists. Sometimes it's very difficult to stay out of trouble. No matter how hard you try, everything turns out wrong. I was determined not to let this happen to me. I passed up the wilder parts of the city and located a YMCA. I went into the reading room, pulled out my maps and studied them. I also wrote a letter to my mom, telling her everything was great and the world was treating me kindly. Why load worries onto her? A three-cent stamp would not be hard to come by; I could walk into a drugstore, envelope in hand, and speak to the man behind the counter in a voice loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, "I'm trying to mail this letter home to my mother in New York. Could you spare me a postage stamp?" (I was only turned down twice, both times in Los Angeles.) Many of these drugstores had lunch counters, and on a number of occasions I was even invited to have a sandwich and a cup of coffee.

  It was time to return to the armory. Half a block from the main door I could smell beef stew. Inside a line of several hundred men was forming. Ten large ash cans, fifty gallons each, steamed away on the army stove. Army men cooked and served. As each dipper of stew was raised from the can and poured onto the tin plate, at least a half a pound of stew, mostly meat, was deposited. Seconds were permitted, but very few men needed them. These army cooks seemed proud of what they were doing for the jobless. I had no idea who--county, state or federal government--was supplying the food. Obviously, though, this was the best way to keep men from bumming individual restaurants and homes and ensuring that each got an equal share of what was available.

  I needed a shower badly. Razor blades were available, and several men volunteered to cut hair for as many as they could before "lights out" was called. The cots stood in tiers. Two thin blankets provided enough warmth. An army sergeant made the rounds to make sure that everyone took a shower. An army doctor made quick checks of the men for obvious signs of disease.

  I awoke at 6:30 to the delightful odor of breakfast. I folded the cot neatly and stored it, packing the blankets away for the next crowd due that evening. A short wait in line brought food. The next step would be the streets. To my surprise, no one was allowed outside. All doors were locked. The armory had acquired some new faces while we slept: members of the Immigration Department, a few Texas Rangers, several local cops and two state troopers. When the last man had eaten, an announcement was made for everyone to stand in a single line. Slowly, uniformed authorities passed down the file of men, occasionally questioning one or taking him out of the line to a small office. Immigration was searching for illegal aliens, Mexicans and Canadians; the police, troopers and Rangers were after known criminals. A few words from one of the local cops about the wisdom of leaving town and not getting arrested for vagrancy were not really needed.

  Big blackboards on the wall listed train information needed to get out of town in either direction, along with locations to catch the trains. Once outside, I began waiting for the train west. On board, I settled back for a long ride. However, just a few miles outside of El Paso, the train stopped. Up and down the tracks, heads popped out of cars. Why the sudden stop? From a dirt road a few yards from the tracks hurried about a dozen tall, lanky Texas Rangers. At each freight car they ordered the occupants to come forward. Some Rangers insisted that the men come all the way out of the car. A Ranger appeared at my car, scrutinizing each face. "Any greaseballs in here?"

  "What you lookin' for?" asked one of the riders with a slight smile.

  "Greasers, illegal Mexicans. That's what I'm looking for. Well, none in this car." He moved on to the next one. An hour was consumed by this search. The Rangers netted four or five captives. Apparently, this had been a surprise move. There was no place on the train for anyone to hide. No one could have jumped off without being seen. The Rangers had the train surrounded. You couldn't help but feel sorry for the victims. After making it across the border, eluding local police and getting aboard a train, they had probably figured that within a few hours they would be out of the state and en route to a more prosperous life. Instead they'd been yanked off the train in the desert, within a hair's breadth of success.

  Chapter XVII: At Last, California!

  A slow moving freight, picking up cars along the way, brought me into Tucson early in the morning. The sun was bouncing heat waves against the ground and there was no breeze as I came to the city's outskirts from the train junction. I walked around a bit, trying to decide what to do. Should I bum a meal? Should I stay overnight? What were my immediate plans?

  The heat became unbearable, exhausting me. Across the street a church and its buildings occupied half a block. Its door was open. Inside it was dark and empty. Candles flickered in a corner near the altar. Despite two open doors, the atmosphere was cool, as if some protective spirit prevented the heat from entering. I knelt and said a few Our Fathers. Then I settled back in my wooden bench and fell asleep. I must have slept for two hours when someone touched my shoulder. Startled, I blinked awake to the sight of a woman's inquisitive face above me. "You must be terribly tired to fall asleep in a church," she said.

  "Yes, ma'am. I am tired."

  "Do you live around here?"

  "No, ma'am. I'm from New York. I'm looking for work here."

  "Oh, my! All the way from New York! Do you have any money?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "How do you eat, then?"

  "I suppose you call it begging. But I always try to work for it."

  "When did you last eat?"

  "I don't remember."

  "You don't remember?" She appeared astonished.

  "That's right, ma'am. I don't remember."

  "Are you hungry?"

  "Starved."

  "Did you pray today?"

  "I did."

  "What did you pray for?"

  "For something to eat."

  "You better come with me."

  I followed her into the torrid head. Next to the church a walkway, protected from the sun's rays by a leafy roof of trees, led to the rectory. A chubby priest sauntered back and forth, reading his breviary. As we approached he lifted his head. "I found this young man sleeping in the church," the woman told him.

  The priest closed his book. I could see he was making one of those five-second judgments about me. The woman continued. "He's a Catholic boy from New York trying to find work. He has no money and he's utterly famished. Will you please get him some food from the kitchen?"

  The plump little cleric, who obviously disliked me on sight, replied, "I'm sorry, but the kitchen has been cle
aned up and is closed."

  "Well, then," countered the woman, "we can't very well let him starve, now can we?" Not waiting for a reply, she quickly added, "Will you give me some money so he can eat? I'll repay you when I come to mass on Sunday."

  "I don't carry money with me," replied the priest.

  I disliked him immensely because I could see through him. The woman didn't see him as he really was: a well-fed, potbellied oaf of a man who only cared about himself. But whether she saw through him or not, she was a fast thinker. "Well," she demanded, "if you haven't got it with you, will you get it while we wait for you?" That sounded authoritative enough. The priest went into the rectory. He came back and handed me 50 cents. Compared to nothing, that was a lot of money. On the road, there are ways to make a few cents stretch a long way. Later, in a store, I had the 50 cents changed into nickels and dimes.

  With a nickel in hand I entered the first restaurant I saw. "This is all the money I have in the world," I lied to the man behind the counter. "Could you give me something to eat for it?" This ploy works four out of five times; in fact, it makes it hard for anyone to turn you down. You may not eat steak, but if worse comes to worse, there's always the traditional Western standby--a bowl of chili and crackers. He did not accept my nickel as payment; very few people would. Who wants to take someone's last penny?

  My heels were down. I went into the shoemaker's and used the same ruse, only this time I raised it to a dime. The shoemaker put a pair of heels on for me and refused the dime. Of course, I attributed all of this to the few simple prayers I had said in church earlier.

  Being wealthy has its disadvantages. I now had to ensure that my riches were safely hidden. If some of the guys I encountered knew I had 50 cents, they would very well slit my throat for it. With nothing in my pockets I had no such worry. I stashed the 50 cents under my armpits. I kept only a nickel in my pocket.

  I caught a freight out of Tucson in the cool evening. Alone in the boxcar, I settled in for a long night's haul to the California border. With the door open, I fell asleep. The dead silence of the boxcar informed me I was no longer part of the train on which I started out. We were sidetracked miles from anywhere. I became perplexed. What the hell was I going to do miles from nowhere, out in the desert? Fully awake now, I realized we were in some sub-junction with five sets of track. On the second set of tracks away from me stood several railroad work cars. I could smell cooking and hear women's voices. A ventilation door opposite me opened. A woman caught sight of me with my clothes rumpled and hair all disheveled. She turned her head and spoke into the car to someone. Another woman's face appeared, looked at me and withdrew.